All His Senses
by Lauryn Vi
Summary: Georg considers himself a disciplined man, but his senses keep betraying him.


Well, isn't this just a complete and utter piece of fluff.

This is a bit out of my usual zone (mostly because none of my previous favourite pairings end up together, which tends to makes things not as fluff-able), and told in drabble format (also out of my usual zone) - would love to know what you think!

Thanks to all for such a warm welcome to the fandom - evidently y'all (and Georg and Maria) inspire me, because two stories within one week has never happened before.

* * *

All His Senses

The first time they met, Georg didn't notice her eyes. He'd been staring at her dress.

It wasn't how the dress _looked_ that had him fixated – although in hindsight it had been hideous, a coarse and shapeless little thing, the colour of a muddy stream – it was how it _smelled_. Like stone and dirt and meadows and fresh air.

There was something wild in its scent. Something raw. Something uninhibited.

He was sure it was the smell that brought up those long forgotten memories of his youth. Memories of secluded moments in the fields of Salzburg, first kisses that only fueled the wanting, the breathlessness of hotheaded desire, the feeling of sun on his back and grass under his palms as he tried to support his own body weight in a last ditch effort to maintain some form of gallantry –

He realized she was saying something. Qualifying her sewing skills. He was sure they were quite good, but he wasn't really listening, because he was reflecting on how smell really was the most powerful sense.

How else could he explain his sudden impulse to tear that ridiculous dress off her and –

Oh God. This dress definitely did not belong in his house.

* * *

Something about that look in her eyes caught his attention the first time he saw it.

He _had_ been thinking of his children – feeling the little ones' arms around him and hearing Kurt's laughter. Relishing the spontaneous moment of connection the same moment he realized how much he had missed them. And good grief, how grown up Liesl looked. Was that his Gretl presenting flowers to Elsa Schraeder like a little lady? She turned to acknowledge some hidden signal at the doorway, and he had looked up.

She was standing tentatively by the open door, her dripping dress making little puddles on the marble floor. He was acutely aware of how the wet material clung to her in areas he probably shouldn't be noticing. Forcing his gaze away, he met her eyes.

That look, bright and shining – oddly incongruent with his inexcusable display of temper – lingered in his mind even after she inclined her head and took her leave. What was it?

He saw it again and again over the next few weeks, mostly with the children. He caught it when Liesl mastered a song on the guitar, when Gretl checked herself mid-tantrum, when Friedrich greeted Elsa at the breakfast table with a polite "good morning Baroness." He found himself spending more time with the children – because he enjoyed it and he loved them, of course – but with the treacherously honest part of his mind, admitted it was in part because at those times, he felt her gaze on him most often. He knew that if he looked up, he would catch that look in her eyes, accompanied by a slight, secretive smile.

When he sat down one evening to help Brigitta pick out a pattern for her party dress and saw her looking from across the room, he suddenly realized what it was.

It was a look delivered boldly and fearlessly, and marked them as equals. It was the look of approval.

He was too busy wondering why on earth Georg von Trapp would crave approval – most of all from the governess under his employment – that he didn't notice he had begun seeking that look on purpose.

And that he wanted his governess to look at him with her look of approval in situations that most certainly did not involve the children.

* * *

Even to his own ears, his singing voice sounded rough with disuse. The children, listening enthralled at his feet – thinking or dreaming as their natures dictated – didn't seem to mind. Elsa was whispering something to Max, who looked on speculatively.

But it was to her he looked most often, helplessly, almost timidly.

If she had met his gaze, she would have seen a look that was unguarded and vulnerable. But she was looking past him, her head tilted back against the scaffold, with that faraway, dreaming look of hers. Only the small sighs that escaped through parted lips in time with the music betrayed how thoroughly she was hearing him. Oh yes, he noticed those.

At one point, she ran a hand absentmindedly along her left side, down her hip and thigh. The delicate chiffon sighed. It might have been his imagination that turned that sound into a whisper, please, touch me there.

Then, his voice shook, in a way that had nothing to do with disuse.

* * *

He never intended for them to touch. He had gone to the terrace for a breath of fresh air (and brief reprieve from his party guests), where he found his governess dancing the Landler in the most ridiculous mid-twist with Kurt.

He should not touch her in front of the children, he knew. In fact, he should not touch her at all.

But he had asked.

The hands she gave him were tentative and hesitant at first, but quickly found the perfect resistance against his. They moved across the terrace, her in the circle of his arms, her at his side, her one step behind him, and he realized they fit together, everywhere.

Her dress was plain, lacking the frills and bows that adorned the other ladies. It allowed him unobstructed access to the smoothness of her arms as she moved them from one unbroken line to the next, to feel how her waist was both lithe and fragile at the same time, and how her legs brushed against his through the thin fabric.

Rebelliously, he found it was not enough. He wanted to trace the length of her collarbone from one end to the other. To know how the spot that pulsed at the base of her neck felt against his lips. To run his hands along her waist, her hips, her entirety, without the fabric of her dress in the way.

Goddamn, his gloves.

They spun closer together, into a move ironically named 'the sweetheart'. He could taste a scent that was distinctly familiar and yet not his own, and realized they were sharing a breath.

That moment he knew, this would never be enough.

* * *

The sweetness of her kisses mingles with the sweat of her skin. He savours every inch of her, because now that he has her, he can afford to wait.

She presses against him, insistent. As he obliges, her eyes flutter closed, but it doesn't matter anymore. The approval she gives him is not with her eyes. It's in the way her body opens for him, and the way she sounds when she cries, please, Georg, more.

It's in the way she comes apart beneath him, and when he responds in kind, he learns that for Maria, all his senses are not enough.

\- La Fin.


End file.
